The beginning of an end. 

“I am not good” he said. Piercing me with eyes that absorbed all light but reflected none… But I was worse. 

Somehow I exited what was once a dream. A dream that was not by any means ideal, or perfect. It was tinged with welcomed imperfections. I remember an embrace deep within myself. I find myself meandering deep into a purgatory of 4 walls. No way out. Each of these walls are lined with memories that haunt to no end.
Today, I woke with conviction.  A mission to complete in mind. I wanted to convey pieces of my inner self that have been dying to be heard.  And for once in my life I pulled the veil from my eyes and most importantly my lips. My mouth for so very long had held feelings that were screaming, fighting to come to the surface. Months of swallowing liquified fermented grapes have drowned out all rationale.
Day in and day out I have swallowed the directed dosage of Lexapro. I daily swallowed fragments of a memory I graveled to forget, in a hell of complete dependency. I depended on its molecular promise of light and clarity. I sit here, hands bound – intertwined with heartstrings banking on closure. Time has unraveled in an insidious fashion. You’ve claimed that you have turned off your “switch”. You in the process have also managed to embody a ghoul that is a fucking coward. Shameless. And cold. What is it like there? Perhaps I will like it too. I too, will enter your home of solitary confinement. Is it lovely to share your accomplishments with the bottom of a bottle? Is it comforting to know that you’ve disassembled a beautiful smile?  A girl so blind and forthright. A young girl who was completely convinced she had all of the tools to fix whatever it was that this unforgiving world had shit on.

But you’ve decided to throw away any parcel of hope I so desperately held to. Happy Valentine’s Day my love. You’ll walk streets hand in hand with those who wear masks of wolves. Your legacy unappreciated. You will play the part of a sad lonely ventriloquist, smiling when summoned. You will day by day die on the inside while you affiliate with those who give less than two shits about what brings you true genuine happiness.
And although I am bitter with hate towards the decision you have made – I’ll part ways with a love for you that tonight dies once and for all.

I tended to be more of a romantic than a realist. And chose blind faith over cold logic.


A nest full of unapologetic remorse.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.

For the life of me, I cannot seem to remember the last time I produced a well written piece.   I abhor writing without purpose or direction.  It is not that I don’t have anything to say, it has just been immensely challenging trying to put my thoughts into words; to place a melody to an arrangement of emotions and memories.
To be honest, I did not think I would survive this year without walking away with a brutally jaded mentality.  But, in the midst of my un-prevailing battlefield, I was lucky enough to witness the selfless love of friends that would not give up.  And let me assure you, like a mustang at risk of being captured by the BLM, I was just too stubborn to let anyone break down my wall of impenetrable denial.  Until recently, I lived in a fantasy land of black and white replicas of a life I wished to have, and the incessant re-runs of the life I had to walk away from.
On second thought, I didn’t walk away, I ran.  I ran so fast that I ignored all levels of sanity and rationale.  For as long as I can
remember, I 86 any situation I know I cannot change or control.  And this habit of mine is one I have relentlessly tried to correct time and time again.  It is cowardly and so full of disappointment.  If I could pinpoint where this unappealing characteristic I had adopted came to fruition, I would go back and shoot it square between the eyes.  But, I don’t.  And that’s how karma taught me a lesson, by placing another runner on my plate.
This person captivated me first, slowly and with conviction. A deeply embedded drip of toxic adornment straight into my veins. I was enveloped completely.  I unknowingly fell into a deep coma of lusted addiction.  All of my life I knew nothing of healthy interactions.  Can you blame me?  I never knew of another way, only turmoil and heightened examples of tumultuous relationships gone wrong.  I am well acquainted with burning spirals of amorous episodes.  And one after another, I held my position on the playing board.  Stood my ground and kept my head down low, never one to rock the boat and fall out of line.
And then it happened, I fell in love. Deeply.
I called it love.  Friends and family of mine labeled it poison.  I now see why.  It was poisonous because i no longer held a foundation of the factor that mattered most.  Myself.  Deep down the whole time I knew I was swimming in a sea of risky water.   I ignored the signs, I rejected the advice of those who loved me, and that is where I found myself to be a failure.
I hope my experience sparks a match of realization deep in the hearts of those lying to themselves.  Let me cliche’ it up by stating that life is too brief to fuck with.  It is too short to play as if you hold all the answers because, you quite frankly don’t.
 I waltzed with the devil. And I waltzed well.  But the time has come for me to learn a new dance.  Perhaps the tango?

All of the adversity I’ve had in my life, all my troubles and obstacles have strengthened me.  You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you..

Two words:  adversity and change.

Why is it that most of society find themselves so adverse to change?  In my own experience, changes intruded my life and found a way to ruin plans I worked very hard for.  I have been told on numerous accounts, “life happens when you’re busy making plans”.  Well, I say- Fuck that mantra! Planning in my experience is not a task to be neglected.  It allows one to sculpt a structure in which they can utilize in an instance where chaos decides to rear its’ nasty head. 

Almost immediately after my initial diagnosis, my life significantly shifted.  I underwent a marathon of repeated trips to various eye specialists in the Los Angeles area.  In all actuality, I am still in limbo with my efforts to overcome the complications Glaucoma hastily throws my way.  There is not much my big blue eyeballs haven’t seen or physically felt.  I call it: Eyeball Molestation.  From ultrasounds to a series of five iredectomy’s (laser eye procedure that literally burns a hole into the iris to allow fluid to be released and eye pressure to be relieved).  As luck would have it, the attempts at containing my cursed eyes are thoroughly unsuccessful.  In December, my doctor made the call to send me under the knife!  The purpose of the surgery was to create a drain so that fluid would have an escape and pressures could be brought down to a normal level.  The surgery went well and exceeded the expectations of my doctor.  I was not in much pain, but obviously being a hypochondriac I felt overly sensitive whenever there was discomfort in the left eye.  Thank God we were all in unanimous agreement to do ONE eye at a time.  With one of the risks being acute blindness, I was not about to test my glorious luck.

Through the recovery period I felt crazed.  I had limited vision, and was ordered to “take it easy”.  Which translated to no exercise, no working, and limited driving.  The thought of not working to some may sound like answered prayers, but for me, it meant being unproductive and financially restricted.  I am no boujie bitch, but I have financial commitments to adhere to.  This financial crutch then led to friends and family stepping in to help, which torments me to no end.  My number one peeve is feeling like a charity case.  And so that led me to become creative in searching for a way to accrue some bucks.  If you’re jumping to conclusions, get that mind out of the gutter.  A semi-blind stripper just isn’t hot.  I decided to become a nanny.  Ironic that I went from a scientific field to babysitting.  But, I suppose it is related since kids are basically monkeys.  However, I much prefer primates to 13 year old girls,  I learned REAL quick that 13 year old girls are satanic.  Seriously, it was like dealing with a dog infected with rabies.  I did not know what kind of shift I was in for.  Hormones. Yikes.  Funny thing is, I was so thrilled to have the job and to finally have a purpose that I took the abuse with open arms, not to mention $20/hr.

Sadly, two days ago, my eyes took a turn for the worst (again). I graduated from closed angle glaucoma to malignant glaucoma.

to be continued -theblindgem


Gratitude is free.


Gratitude is an art of painting an adversity into a lovely picture,

Today, I will keep my keep my long-winded opinions to a bare minimum. I saw someone very dear to my heart today and was solemnly reminded of all the beauty I take for granted in my life.

It is horrifically easy to adhere to what one personally thinks is important, but tonight- I feel it is necessary to be grateful for all that is ignored. Why does the bullshit find it’s way of taking precedence over the magic and blessings handed to us?

I am grateful for:

1. My parents forgiveness- they know of all my “schmuck” tendencies I fight to hide from the world.
2. Human beings who see the beauty of living in some of the worst situations I have ever witnessed.
3. Health- 2 very dear people to me were diagnosed with cancer a while back and today they were simultaneously rechecked. They both were cleared cancer-free.
4. My cat- he brought me yet another gift this evening. Poor rat.
5. Ice cream- reincarnates the soul.

LOVE- theblindgem


99 Problems & my eyes are a big one.

The story I am about to share is one I have held in close proximity to my heart for at least 4 months now. I have shared it with close friends and family, but until now, I was unable to find the words within me to break the ice.  I want to be 100% clear that this story is not being told to accrue a following of pity-pansies.  For 4 months I have been internally and externally fighting a battle of fear and sadly, the inevitable.

Below is a wonderful excerpt from FRAGMENTS, written by philosopher Jean Baudrillard.  It does not hold a title, but it somehow gives justice to the way I perceive my glorious new reality.  Following the excerpt, I will share the meaning behind, “The Blind Gem”.

Deafness is a lesser affliction than that not being able to see.  Because seeing is a constant marvel, and there is a sort of perfection of the visible.  Vision enchants what it touches.  Even ugliness becomes miraculous by the simple fact of sight, the eye, color, and the pure joy of appearances.  

Hearing is more visceral and dramatic, and hence closer to fear.

Closer to language and meaning, and thus closer also to stupidity.  For the absurdity of language is more penetrative, more poignant, more laden with meaning, than that of the spectacle and sight.  This is why I would be more prepared to accept being cut off from the world by deafness, which spares us from its absurdity, than to be deprived of the sight of the world, even if the scene presented were an obscenity. 

Hearing has more to do with the sexual, and deafness with the sexual impotence, whereas sight and the gaze have to do with seduction.  

To live without seeing is to live without being seen – even if this does not prevent blind women from putting on makeup, and indeed doing so in front of a mirror. 

It is to live without seduction.

A world without watching eyes is like a sleepless night, peopled with inner nightmares. 

 July of this year was HOT! Do any of you Californians remember?  Thank God my rice bucket’s air conditioner didn’t give out on me, like almost every other aspect of my life did that month.  Despite the heat, I was happy.  Summer was coming to an end, my memory bank filled to the brim with spontaneous adventures and a new appetite for my future as an aspiring veterinarian-to-be.  All of my ducks were in a row in regards to my education plan and I was so fortunate to have landed a job with a company specializing in stem cell treatments for animals.  I had a boyfriend who pushed me to believe in myself and the qualities I at one time could not recognize.  I had wonderful parents who supported me at any cost, no matter how far fetch the dream.  I had a best friend who did not mind dancing like an ostrich in the middle of Main St with me.  I was surrounded by love.

Then.. I made an optometrist appointment.  An appointment about 6 years overdue.  Since graduating high school, I consistently held two to three jobs at once.  I neglected myself in regards to my health.  For years I squinted and fought through migraines and blurred vision.  “Emily, why do you always look so high?!”   These symptoms I lived with were apart of what I considered the norm.

Movie theaters, dark alleys, bars..  For as long as I can remember my vision had been virtuously absent in low lighted situations.  Ignorantly, I presumed this to be how everyone else perceived the world.

I walked into the Optometry office and checked in for my appointment.  I was there for a visual test.  I was there to pick up a prescription for glasses.  So, as I waited for the assistant to call me in, I chose a bitchin’ pair of red Dolce and Gabbana frames.  They were a tad bit over priced, but when glasses fit your face and don’t make you look like a Monkey’s Uncle, it’s a sign to bite the bullet.

“Miss Goyette! This way please.”

I sat in a metal chair that looked like it was borrowed from Hannibal Lector’s lair.  There were eyeball-torture contraptions EVERYWHERE.  I specifically remember feeling smug, thinking THANK GOD I am not here for anything serious.  This is ridiculous to admit, but my worst fear at that point was that I was going to be told I needed bi-focals; coke bottle lenses that would surely doom me to nerdville.

The doc entered the room and got right down to business.  I started reading the letters from the wall.  I glided through the first two rows of fat over-sized letters.  As I ascended down the line, I noticed the horrific disadvantage I had while covering one eye.  Without compensation of the other eye, my vision was complete shit.  And I noticed something terrifying.

“Emily, dear, sit back for a moment, I would like to test a few other things.”

A few tests turned into a series of eyeball prodding and eyelid manipulations.  Tests were repeated once or twice, and the whole time the doc remained quaint and pleasant.  He engaged in small talk and complimented my “big blue diamond eyes”.  After about an hour, the man sat back on his stool, crossed his legs and with a sad look in his eyes said to me:

My dear, I am afraid to be the bearer of bad news, but you have glaucoma.  And it is advanced. Very advanced.  Your angles are closed.  And your pressures are through the roof.  Normal pressures are between 10 and 20.  I have checked your eye pressure three times.  Your left eye reads 52 and your right reads 48.  I cannot let you leave here until I can lower them to a safe level.

I was dumbfounded.  I had heard of glaucoma vaguely from my experience in the veterinary field, but I had no idea what this meant and I did not understand the severity of the diagnosis.  I assume my face reflected this thought process, so the doc did his best to explain in the simplest of terms.

Angle-Closure Glaucoma

Angle-closure glaucoma, a less common form of glaucoma:

  • Is caused by blocked drainage canals, resulting in a sudden rise in intraocular pressure
  • Has a closed or narrow angle between the iris and cornea
  • Develops very quickly
  • Has symptoms and damage that are usually very noticeable
  • Demands immediate medical attention.


ABOVE: An open angle

The increased intraocular pressure can permanently damage vision in the affected eye(s) and lead to blindness if left untreated. Glaucoma has been called the “silent thief of sight” because the loss of vision often occurs gradually over a long period of time, and symptoms only occur when the disease is quite advanced. Once lost, vision cannot normally be recovered, so treatment is aimed at preventing further loss. Worldwide, glaucoma is the second-leading cause of blindness after cataracts. 

The doc places multiple RX eye-drops into each eye in hopes to reduce my intensely elevated pressures.  He releases me to leave with a referral in hand to see an ophthalmologist immediately.  It was surreal. I felt disoriented.  I went to the desk to pay for my visit.  The woman was speaking to me, but all I could hear was “Blind, blind, blind, blind, blind… You could have gone blind, blind, blind…”  She handed me my receipt and I walked in shock back to my car.  I fumbled for my keys and entered my car.  I closed the door and viciously closed my eyes.  My thoughts flickered through scenes of my past.  I envisioned sunsets, the sea, the moon, and above all, my greatest love in life.. the horses.

I darted for my iPhone and called my father.  It rang for what seemed like an eternity then went to voicemail.  I hung up.  Then immediately redialed.  He answered.

And that’s when the strangest thing happened.  I was awake, but my voice was at the moment, stolen.  Have you ever been deeply immersed in a dream, a nightmare? And just as the monster is about to envelop you into his sinister grip, you attempt to scream, but your dream-self is incapable of producing even the slightest vibration of a sound wave.  This was me, in real life, on Wilshire Blvd.  ….Trying to tell my dad that I was just diagnosed with glaucoma, at age 22.



In drunken retrospect.

Don’t you know there ain’t no devil, it’s just god when he’s drunk. -Tom Waits

A few nights ago I scribbled away on a piece of scratch paper my irrational thoughts of what I assumed to be a masterpiece.  I sat there laughing to myself in a drunken stupor, I wrote as if I held the secrets to life.  I have heard people blame alcohol for their mistakes, their misfortune…  But on this particular night, I felt as if the intoxication gave me clarity.  I wrote several times, “it’s like trying to fit a square into a circle.”  Over and over again I wrote this down.  I may have gone a little mad, but the conclusion I came to in the morning was this: Drunk blogging is a bad idea. Why?

Because it is too RAW.  It’s too real, one must never see you raw.  Uninhibited without the glory of your perfected mirage.  A sober individual has all of the necessary tools to chisel away their imperfections.  They can mask their heart’s gravitational pull.  And most could argue the beauty of being pure; emotionally naked.  I believe we are adverse to the havoc alcohol reaps because we are not accepted by those we instill our heart’s desire.

When you’re spinning out of control, the music isn’t just heard, it is felt.  Every lyric, every beat.  You are in the moment, tomorrow is not relevant to the drunk.  It is the right now, the right this second.  I wish to live that way.

We drink to celebrate, to party, to let go.  We drink at weddings, funerals, networking events, and occasionally uncork in a nice hot bath.  What is shameful is the pompous asshole who dismisses your “under the influence” exchange.  The shmuck who does not take you seriously when you unveil the truth.  Personally, I have never regretted what I’ve said when drunk, what pissed me off was the response it allocated back.  There is nothing worse than being taken as a joke when you are vulnerable.  Or to not receive the answers your raw heart craves to hear.  This is where the mishap takes place.  Once the drunk has been rejected, the fangs and claws follow suit.  And this is where the truth turns to lies. The anger consumes the raw heart and sets it on fire. The message is no longer projected with the initial intent it once carried.

Its like trying to fit a square into a circle.  The sober holds his square posture, while the drunk tries to mesh with his circular sincerity.  It is a fucked up dance that is unable to flow.  Look, I am not addicted to the whiskey, I am drawn to the clarity of my intoxicated thoughts.  I am infatuated with the courage it bestows on my psyche.  The words I soberly deter from are accentuated with Jameson.


They want a piece of that adolescent meat.

“These girls, I tell you. They want a Sugar Daddy, until daddy wants that sugar!” 

I have been living in Los Angeles for almost three years now, and it never gets old seeing couples who are at least 20 years apart in age.  I used to automatically think, “What a gold-digging SLORE.”  The breed is more prominently seen in Beverly Hills or West Hollywood.  This breed I am referring to are the finely stocked collection of money-hungry bimbo’s that inhabit high-status lounges/bars.

On one account, I had the pleasure of eavesdropping on a SLORE preying on hideous man who, well, to be frank, smelled of Benjamin Franklins.  He sat at the bar sipping on fancy-schmancy Scotch, two ice cubes.  (I have this weird fascination with the way men with “status” order their drinks.) He wore a slick suit with baby blue cuffs.  He looked exhausted, the back of his jacket held deep creases from what I am assuming, a long day at the office.

Back to the SLORE- She was probably a few years older than me, with BIG hair.  I am talking BIG.  Looked to me like she had gotten into an altercation with a teasing comb.  The hair I must say was her only flaw, the rest of her was Getty-like.  She wore a thin satin-looking dress.  The color was creamy and quite beautiful in contrast to her spray tanned skin. Her eyeliner matched her get-up, electric blue- slightly smudged on her cheek.  (Sloppy mess.)

She whispers to her partner in crime, “How do my tit’s look?”.

“Girl, he’s going to confuse that rack for Kate Upton.”

At this point I started to choke on my beer, the SLORE merely had a C-cup, last time I checked, Upton had perfect Double-D’s.

The SLORE smugly grins, and begins her overly-exaggerated hip sway strut to the man at the bar.  I must add that I was sitting to the right of the man.  Looking over, I could only see the facial expressions of the SLORE.  She approaches him, and I kid you not, flips her hair right in his face.  I assume this was to be physically provocative, but it startled him shit-less.

“HEEEEEEYYYY, my name is Jordan, I could not help noticing you staring at me for like, the last ten minutes. And like, I have to admit, I have been like, staring at you too.  What do you do for a living?”.

ABOVE: The story continues, however, I primarily wanted to give an example of a young woman pursuing an older man.  But, what about the women falling into the traps and persuasions of men that hold monetary value? More importantly, the fact that the men are at least ten to twenty years their senior.

“It’s not that we are not attracted to women our age, it’s just that women in their early-mid twenties have such an appetite for life. They are happy.  Un-jaded.  Sometimes woman over thirty carry so much baggage and bullshit, they unintentionally suck the passion from the entire relationship.” -the 8 ball.

Oh, the 8 ball.  I am not referring to the Urban Dictionary’s definition of an “1/8th ounce of cocaine”.

 I met Eight a little over a year ago, and he was the first person, 12 years my senior, to have shown a romantic interest towards me.  I was partially confused and partially flattered that I could capture the interest of someone who had gone through a bit more life experience than I.  Yet, this was also the first time in my life, at 21 years old, that I could actually be attracted to an old man.  Given, he was not OLD, like tales of the Crypt old, but.. older.

Since Eight, the list of old men barking up my tree gets embarrassingly long.  The ratio of men my age to men the age of vampire’s has become ridiculously out of hand.  From married men to pinche’ famous Barsochinni’s.

And EVERY time the offer is the same.  MONEY.   They think if they drop a couple “hundies” then the undies are to surely follow suit.   I have on numerous accounts felt like that worn out hideous man at the bar, just wanting to enjoy my liquor, but instead have ancient Prince-not so charming’s trying to entice me  with compliments and persuasions that I swear to Jeebis, all sound like they were shopped for at the same store of bullshit & corny flattery.

Conclusion:  I am offering classes to the Bimbo’s and SLORE’S of West LA,


Rate: $60/hr

The Pro: By the end of the first class, you will be able to make back the $60 spent from the Sugar Daddy of choice.

The Con: By the end of the first class, you will have a Stage Five Saggy ball-sack clinger.